A History of Silence
by CuttleMeFish
Summary: The whole thing is almost kinder to the country standing trial than to the offended parties, perhaps because this is all about forgiving but not forgetting. England knows it very well, perhaps too well. Warnings for cursing, mentions of imperialism, and speculation of justice among nations. Ambiguous relationships.
1. Chapter 1

**A History of Silence **

**Part I. Empire**

England fists his hand around a mound of dirt, which, being eternally clever, escapes the clutches of human fingers. Fingers whose width is but a millisecond measured in borrowed time. The might of nature, he has learned, can be overcome. So he uses a jar built by one of his most expert craftsmen. Only this way can he be sure of its quality. And he stuffs it to the brim, counting each granule by piece. All, together, they are _more_ than a millisecond.

He knows better, though, because secular time has never been political time.

In political time, the United States exists in half a wink.

[He thinks this in multiple pronouns, _they_, _he, it_: meanings weaved through indirectness, like the burial ground for words unspoken and growing organically by the—how does one even begin to measure what exists in a vacuum?]

On average, _oh on average_, people tell him, a person blinks 16 times per minute. And in twenty-four hours, _on average_, a person might blink over 23040 times. A simple, habitual act repeated in cycles, like history.

He thinks of this as he shakes the jar every day.

But eventually he notices some shifting, because dirt—being _clever_—always returns to its mother, the land.

[This only later, with the help of India, he can see is not the same as the motherland, because the motherland, oh, that is a construction of men and countries.]

And almost instantly he thinks that there is nothing sacred about a gravedigger's home.


	2. Chapter 2

**A History of Silence **

**Part II. Summons**

It's not the noise he fears.

It's the silence, which is not the friend of peace.

Maybe, he muses through his pacing, silence is the cousin of anger, like the aftermath of too much sound blending into itself, too many feet pounding the earth until it is raw. It's like a rubber band stretched too thin, so _very _thin until it –

_snaps_.

He drops his tie, eyes wide as the strips of fabric fall slowly to the floor.

The house isn't silent yet.

It's more like a quiet lull has fallen on it. It's more subdued. But at least the stairs still creak and the cat still meows and the clock stills chimes, which is something. He's not sure he could wait in silence.

Then, France walks in, picks up the tie, and pushes England's trembling fingers away.

"Oh please," he croons, "let me."

God, he really misses London.

.

Every country has an executioner—an ally who will not balk at the first sign of tears, but who will also not hesitate to extend a handkerchief when the first one steamrolls down someone's cheek. The semantics are confusing and the ritual is not supposed to be easy, but at least the execution is more figurative than literal (at least).

Once upon a time it used to be real. Empires sacrificed at the altar of peace, made icons of evil and martyrdom to remind all nations what the illness of empire, the desire for it really was and perhaps still _is_. Some used to be reborn and others remained dead forever or at the least trapped in anonymity.

The whole thing is almost kinder to the country standing trial than to the offended parties, perhaps because this is all about_ forgiving_ but not forgetting.

Empires rise and fall every day, England thinks. He isn't the first and won't be the last. But in a way, this is all about justice, and he tries to remember that, make it palatable so he can swallow it in one gulp. It's all about reminding him that _he _is not in charge of justice, because not even hegemony wipes the slate clean.

Sins are sins and blood is blood. It's not personal.

In England's case, his executioner is France. He helps dress England in the morning, and clutches his hand tightly before walking him into the room. There's this sense of relief about the whole thing, like England has been waiting for this for a long, long time.

Maybe he has.

France reminds him: an hour for personal narrative, then the rest of the time—however long it takes—will be yielded to the respectful, silent observance of grievances and witnesses. He will not be allowed to talk or defend himself.

When given the chance—because he will be given the chance!—he probably shouldn't. It's not nice to hear, but he knows this isn't about him. It's not personal.

Apparently India has signed up to speak first. Belgium waves him in with a bite of her lip. Canada consoles Australia. He wonders if he'll have the longest trial in history. Suddenly, he's not sure he's all that proud of his crumbling empire.

America is nowhere to be seen. Apparently he's not into courts, something or other about the ritual undermining his right to sovereignty.

Germany stands before him after a long bout of silence.

"Please tell the court about your origins."

**.**

When America receives the letter, it is tea time, which is annoying because it means England stops mid-drink at the same time as America shoots the envelope right into the trash bin, an imperfect parabola.

He doesn't even bat an eyelash.

"That looked important," the other nation replies curtly, finishing his sip. The coffee cup is promptly nestled back on his palm. "No, no," he interrupts before America even has a _chance_. "It was an observation, not a question. Is that what you do to all official correspondence from any of us?" When he is met with silence, he assents his head, "that was a question."

"It's court stuff again. But I'm not part of the ICC and I don't really pay attention to the ICJ," America shrugs, reaching for a cookie. "I don't know why I keep getting them."

"Maybe because _it's _important," England arches an eyebrow, rolling his eyes. "Honestly," he sighs, "you could at least read it before dismissing it as unworthy of your immortal time."

"You're going to keep bugging me about this all night if I don't, aren't you?" he huffs, reaching for the bin to dig the offending envelope out. He rips it open, unfolding the page carelessly. His disinterest is so palpable it makes England sick. "There, see? Boring legal language just informing me that—"

"That?" England is surprised by the halting silence.

America takes off his glasses, rubbing at them vigorously with the cuff of his shirt before he blinks and continues reading and –

"I'm being put on trial."

England furrows his brow, "by whom?"

"_You_! And France and Germany, apparently China, too, and even the damn fucking Holy See is in here! I wasn't built as a Catholic nation. The fuck?"

"Come now, let's calm down. Let me see it," he reaches for it carelessly. "It can't be everyone."

"I can count, you know."

"I'm just being reasonable. Why would we _all_ put you on trial?"

"Maybe because you all have it out for me! You've been the worst, irrationally jealous from the start!" America counts the names again. He counts it three times before he gives up and finally hands the letter off to his guest. "I should kick you out. I was being super hospitable and this is how you repay me. You serve me with a court summon. This is so like you, England."

England balks, almost dropping his cup, "Excuse me? This is so like _me_? Well, fuck you very much, America. Need I remind you who has been your loyal, unquestioning, trusting ally since World War II? Before then, even! Damned ungrateful brat."

"That would be France," he deadpans,

He could fight America on this point, just argue the night away, but instead he takes a cheap shot, because he knows just where to plunge the knife, "who is also suing you, according to you, so I suppose you really are ally-less." His eyes scan over the paper quickly, "Must be nice being so loved."

"At least people come to my birthday party."

"Do you really want to make it that easy for me?" England looked up, amused. He handed the letter back. "You're not being sued. You're just being summoned to give your testimony."

"And there's a difference?" America took the letter back, eyes set on England for a long while as he tried to make sense of the official language one more time.

"It's fine. All empires do it."

America furrowed his brow and the words remained glued to his tongue, "but I'm not."

"Funny," England shakes his head, a dipping smile on his lips. And then he stops, "America, it's alright. I mean, I can admit it's insufferable, but we all do it. It's not a problem. You're not being singled-out, honest."

"But," America tries again, "I'm not an empire…"

.

Australia should break his heart, but instead England can only think of all the justifications floating around his mind. He picks at them eagerly, putting his mind at ease. When he seems to be non-responsive, France calls a recess on his behalf and pulls him out of the room.

He knew it was going to be hard, but not this hard. He hears French, fluid and soothing rush through his ears. Great, more insult to injury.

"You cannot, I repeat, you cannot close yourself off to this, England. We can all see the justifications clouding your eyes. Stop picking at these stories. We will be here until you listen to them all, _all,_ and we will repeat those which lost your attention until you have heard them all, _all_."

"I was not!" he tries to sound insulted, but the look he gets quiets him down. "Maybe," he deflates substantially, "I was a little. But am I really just supposed to sit and let the whole world take a stab at me?"

"Yes," France nodded, "this isn't about you. This is about our brothers and sisters, whose hearts have been oppressed by the illness that blackened our souls and urged us to shackle them by force so they could join us in our gilded prison."

"I guess I just remember it differently," England scoffs, peering back into the courtroom, where more countries are lining up. "Legal systems, governments, railroads, education, industrialization, not everything was evil."

"This will be fruitless if you don't make yourself listen. This might not be about you, but it is meant to help you, too. Help to re-sensitize you. We have been there. We know. Some of us…" he lowers his voice, "against our own people. The pain has to stop."

"I can't help it…"

"That's your only job. To listen. Eventually someone will say something that will reach you, but you have to remain open. You cannot excuse your actions."

"America is not here."

"And he will not be here."

"Not all my grievances will be told, then."

"I'm sure you remember them well. What few of them there really were, compared to the rest of the world that is," France replies curtly, pulling him by the arm back into the room, where India starts all over again.

.

America doesn't understand bowties. He likes the clip-ons, but England keeps nagging him that he should learn to tie a proper bowtie, if he really wants to wear one.

It just doesn't seem practical.

He picks at it, stretching it far, far out by the ends, laughing at the way the corners look like fish with _long_ lips. They're creepy

_Hey, look, England. It's like kissing fish!_

And then his hands get slapped down.

_This is serious_.

But everything is serious, and serious doesn't exactly mean efficient in America's book. The bowtie is a perfect example: why bother learning to tie one in the first place, when someone far more pragmatic than England invented the clip-on?


End file.
